


Thunder Road

by The Feels Whale (miscellea)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Derek use your words, I love Stiles but sometimes he is an asshole, M/M, Magic!Stiles, clue by 4, evil sorcerers, things are happening in the background
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-18
Updated: 2013-08-06
Packaged: 2017-11-14 11:51:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/514938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miscellea/pseuds/The%20Feels%20Whale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Stiles is seven years old a sorcerer visits him in his back yard and offers to buy his soul.</p><p>He’s not a very impressive sorcerer, Stiles thinks. He is of middle height, middling weight, and middling-even tone. He has bland, bland hair the color of dry straw and empty, empty eyes the color of dirty water. His clothes are clean, but a little cheap looking and his shoes haven’t been shined recently.</p><p>Despite that, he parades a visual feast of wonders in front of Stiles’ widened eyes. The sorcerer shows him all sorts of delights; flying ponies, dinosaurs who can be ridden, tiny bags filled with a bottomless supply of toffees, and everything else you could imagine that might turn a young boy’s head plus a few you can’t.</p><p>Stiles considers the offer (looks wistfully at the brontosaurus with its cherry-red saddle) and says “No, thank you.” His mother tells him stories every night before bed and no story that has ever started with the brave little boy saying ‘yes’ to that question ends well.</p><p>“I understand,” says the sorcerer. “Perhaps another time.”</p><p>The very next day Stiles’ mother gets sick for the first time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I was working on Court of the Bitter King, I swear I was. Then this showed up out of nowhere. 8X

 

When Stiles is seven years old a sorcerer visits him in his back yard and offers to buy his soul.

He’s not a very impressive sorcerer, Stiles thinks. He is of middle height, middling weight, and middling-even tone. He has bland, bland hair the color of dry straw and empty, empty eyes the color of dirty water. His clothes are clean, but a little cheap looking and his shoes haven’t been shined recently.

Despite that, he parades a visual feast of wonders in front of Stiles’ widened eyes. The sorcerer shows him all _sorts_ of delights; flying ponies, dinosaurs who can be ridden, tiny bags filled with a bottomless supply of toffees, and everything else you could imagine that might turn a young boy’s head plus a few you can’t.

Stiles considers the offer (looks wistfully at the brontosaurus with its cherry-red saddle) and says “No, thank you.” His mother tells him stories every night before bed and no story that has ever started with the brave little boy saying ‘yes’ to that question ends well.

“I understand,” says the sorcerer. “Perhaps another time.”

The very next day Stiles’ mother gets sick for the first time.

It’s a long illness and the doctors are powerless to stop it or even slow it down. They are optimistic at first, but that gives way to confusion as biopsy after biopsy shows benign tissue in what is clearly malignant growth. Eventually they move to chemotherapy despite the test results, but Mrs. Stilinski’s condition resists all treatments. Stiles’ father, Mr. Stilinski in those days, grows more withdrawn with every passing doctor’s visit. Before long Stiles’ mother is too weak to tell him stories at bedtime and by necessity he learns to get himself ready for school in the mornings.

She dies quietly in her sleep three years later after a funeral procession of failed treatments. Stiles is asleep in the bed next to her and doesn’t realize that she passed until he wakes up and realizes that the hand on his back is ice cold.

The funeral takes place a week later. Stiles stays outside in the backyard during the wake, rocking back and forth in the bench swing where he and his mother used to sit when the long days of summer grew too hot.

His house is full of strangers and his refrigerator is full of casseroles covered in cling wrap. His father has been drinking steadily since yesterday, but gives no outward signs of being drunk. That won’t come until later when the guests have gone and Stiles has gone to bed. Only then will soft sounds of grief echo through the air vents under Stiles’ bed.

Stiles is thinking about that as he rocks back and forth in his swing. He thinks that maybe tonight will be the night when he finds the courage to go downstairs and crawl into his father’s lap to remind him that he isn’t alone with this horrible, crushing weight. He’s sorry he hasn’t done it yet, but the thought of going downstairs to face the knowledge that his mother won’t be waiting down there with her books, a cup of cinnamon cocoa, and a knowing look has been more than he can bear.

 _Tonight_ , he thinks. Tonight he’ll find his courage.

Only when he looks up from his contemplations the sorcerer is standing in front of him with his empty, empty eyes and his hollow, hollow smile.

“Hello, Genim.” He says. “Have you reconsidered my offer?”

“No, sir.” Stiles says as a chill sweeps under his skin. Perhaps he’ll need to find his courage a little sooner than he thought.

“Is that so?” The man sighs. “Is there nothing I can give you that you want?”

“No, sir.” Stiles repeats himself. He wishes he could think of something clever to do to drive the sorcerer away like the children in his mother’s stories, but he doesn’t have the finger bone of a true knight nor does he know any secrets so terrible that the sorcerer dare not touch him. All he has is his own will and the memory of a time when his life was full of good things.

“That is a shame.” The sorcerer turns towards the house and says, “Your father will have to be next.”

Hearts shouldn’t make a sound when they break, but Stiles thinks that maybe his does. It’s not a loud sound -just a tinkle of shards against the inside of his ribs- but it’s there all the same.

“Wait.” He says. His throat has gone so dry the words almost don’t make it out. “Wait, I’ve changed my mind.”

The sorcerer stops and turns back to him with a gentle smile that is no less empty than the one before. “You’re such a smart lad, Genim.” He says. “I _knew_ you would.”

That night Stiles goes downstairs and crawls into his father’s lap. It’s easier to do without any fear or grief left to get in his way. He doesn’t remember quite why he felt it was so important to do this except that it was. 

“I’m here, Dad.” His father is quiet for a long time, but his arms close tight around his son’s small frame forming a barrier between him and all the bad things in the world.

 _This is love_ , Stiles thinks. He can feel it glowing in his father’s chest; a constant beacon he can only recognize now that it’s been extinguished in his own. _I need to remember this_.

 If only he can remember what love is, what it _feels_ like, then he thinks maybe one day that beacon will guide him home.

 

* * *

 

Thunder rumbles in Stiles’ head as Scott closes the door. It’s a faint sound and if he closes his eyes there are dark clouds on the rim of his mental horizon.

“Faaaan-fucking- _tastic_.” He mutters and looks at his tipped chair.

Stiles can count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he’s seen Scott truly lose it and even then he’s never delved into the realm of physical violence. Scott is many things, but repressed has never been one of them.

… until now, apparently.

Stiles suppresses the urge to pitch his desk chair back over when he sees the three parallel tears in the faux black leather. Those claw marks are going to be a bitch to mend. Vinyl does not take patches well.

“Yeah I’m sorry too, Scott.” He mutters and rubs his hands over his buzzed scalp. It’s getting a little long and he grimaces as he realizes he’s going to have to take the clippers to his head again. A buzz cut isn’t really the most flattering hairstyle for him, but given all the things Stiles knows to do with a few snips of human hair? He’s really not taking chances when it comes to his own.

“Cutting it a little close there, aren’t you boy.” It’s not a question.

Stiles doesn’t turn around to look at the shadowy figure leaning against his wall. It’s just a sending and the novelty of talking to a living shadow has long since worn off. Instead it makes his skin prickle like he’s gone too long without a shower, but then again anyone would feel dirty talking to one of those things if they knew what it took to make one.

“I didn’t tell him anything.” He says over his shoulder and begins picking his printouts up off the floor. They’re probably going to be valuable in the coming days. He’ll need to start a new binder. If his research has told him anything, it’s that lone werewolves will seek a pack. If they can’t find one then they’ll make one and given what that entails… _well_. “There’s a storm coming.”

“Yes, I figured that out for myself.” The sending says, parroting the words of its master –of _their_ master. “The confirmation is… appreciated however. I do note that for not telling your friend ‘anything’ you seem to have told him quite a lot.”

“Nothing he won’t find out on his own or from whoever changed him.” Stiles carefully arranges his printings by article. Later he’ll get some plastic sleeves from Office Max to keep them in. “He’s going to a party during a freaking _full moon_. That’s a recipe for a massacre. I thought you might appreciate it if I tried to keep the bloodshed to a minimum. You’re the one always going on about keeping a low profile.”

“I have mentioned that, haven’t I?” The sending’s voice is droll, which is kind of impressive that it has so very little sense of self left. The master must have burned the heart out of whoever it used to be. “However, this is none of my concern. You will distance yourself from the wolf.”

“He’s _my_ concern.” Stiles grits his teeth as pain lances through his insides, somewhere in the vicinity of his kidneys… like maybe he’s passing a stone or something. It wouldn’t be the first time. The master does like his punishments to resemble natural causes.

“ _My_ concern is _your_ concern, _Apprentice_.” The sending’s voice cracks like a whip and when he continues, his voice has the weight of a compulsion to it. “You will distance yourself from Scott McCall. You will render him no aid, no succor, no friendship. His fate is now his own and none of yours.”

“Funny, you say ‘apprentice’ the way most people say ‘slave’.” The pain intensifies and Stiles knows that he’s going to have to take himself to the doctor later on or else he’s going to be peeing blood.

“Consider it paying your dues, my child. Freedom is never given. It can only be taken.” The sending reaches out and runs cold dead fingers down Stiles’ back. His stomach rebels, but the pain recedes. “Later, when you have seen what is to come, you’ll know to thank me. This doesn’t seem like kindness now, but it is –what kindness I have to give, anyway. Whoever your friend was, that person died when he received the bite. Would the Scott you knew have ever offered you harm?”

“He hasn’t.” Stiles fixes Scott’s face in his mind and remembers that confused kicked-puppy expression on his best friend’s face as he walked out the door. Maybe it hasn’t sunk in just yet, but that wasn’t the face of someone who’d enjoyed the power he’d just exerted. “He didn’t.”

“You’ll learn, child.” The sending croons. “You’ll see. Monsters expand to fill all available space. You and I? We are resources to them. They will take everything you have to give and expect more. You are so little and new. I would hate to see you snuffed out before it’s time.”

“Before you kill me, you mean.”

“Yes.” The sending chucks Stiles under the chin and the thick overly sweet and rancid scent of it chokes him. “Or you kill me. It is the way of things.”

“Yeah, I’m all over that.” Stiles pulls away and lowers himself into his chair. Fortunately for him, Scott didn’t manage to disrupt the healing runes painted onto the seat in black acrylic paint and they go to work at once, mending the damage he’s received from his defiance. “That sounds better every day. I think I’m going to focus all my energy on doing just that.”

“Good boy.” The sending flickers. It’s running out of time. They can only stand the sunlight for so long. “No more talk of werewolves.”

“No more talk of werewolves.” Stiles lies.

Later he sneaks out of his house, ignoring the warning prickles of pain in his lower back as he drives out to Lydia’s party. The prickles grow into needles when he gets to Scott’s house and later become knives when he finds the shirtless one wandering by the side of the road. He’s actually a little grateful that the compulsion keeps him from showing any hint of pain on his face as he drives Scott home. Left to his own devices, Stiles isn’t that good of an actor.

He ignores the cold trickle of sweat tracing its way down the length of his spine and tries not to look in the rearview mirror so he won’t have to see the angry yellow eyes reflected in it from the backseat. After all, it’s just an illusion –a warning at the outside. There isn’t anyone actually back there and if there were then Scott’s new wolfy abilities would have detected them.

Then again, Scott hasn’t commented on Stile’s sweat or the scent of injury emanating from him so maybe his wolfy abilities aren’t that good yet.

It’s no matter. Stiles knows what he’s getting into and he knows this isn’t going to come without a price.

That’s the first lesson you learn about magic: nothing is ever free and if it looks that way then that just means you haven’t found the price tag yet.

Retribution comes a lot quicker than Stiles was expecting –and in person too. There is a day or so of quiet, just long enough for him to think that maybe he’d slipped under the radar, before he’s rudely awakened one morning by being dumped onto the floor.

In retrospect, it’s kind of obvious that his Dad’s been around up until now.

“I’m honored that you came here yourself.” He croaks up from the floor of his bedroom where the Master is standing with one foot grinding down on his throat. It’s officially ‘Oh God’ thirty in the morning and Stiles has to be up and moving in forty minutes if he wants to get his morning chores done and leave for school on time. Most of that time is apparently going to be spent not in the shower or doing ineffectual crunches, but in a lesson on obedience.

“Apparently this message needs to arrive in person.” For an ancient megalomaniac with powers beyond the mortal ken, the master is still physically unprepossessing at best. He has no scars, no freckles, no birthmarks, no acne, or any other kind of identifying marks. He’s a criminal sketch artist’s worst nightmare and the kind of perp that makes Sheriff Stilinski want to spit nails. “You will _stay away_ from the wolves.” He growls and there is nothing average about the malice in his voice.

“No, I’m _really_ not.” Stiles rustles up a grin from somewhere. The blood on his teeth probably detracts from it a little, but really Stiles isn’t feeling picky at the moment. He’s learned to take whatever little acts of rebellion he can wherever they present themselves.

“Defiant to the last.” The master shakes his head and presses down with the ball of his foot bearing down directly on Stiles’ windpipe. “I should let you make this mistake. Maybe then you’d learn from it.”

“I think that is an exce-eh- _eeeeehhh_ …” Stiles’ breath chokes off as the foot on his throat presses down again.

“That is not in the cards.” The master scowls. “I wonder, was I so intractable as an apprentice? I think not. My master was not nearly as merciful as I am. Had I shown _him_ such cheek then I would have been dead long before I found a way to bury the murderous old bastard.” He sighs. “I will remain firm upon this point. You will stay away from the wolves or I _will_ punish you.”

“How do you expect me to do that when they’re in my school?” Stiles can’t bite down on the whimper that escapes him at the sudden lance of pain in his gut. Oh, that is going to be hard to explain. “Between Scott and now the hunters…” The sudden cessation of pain is almost as distressing as its onslaught.

“Hunters.” The Master’s voice is flat. “What do you know of _hunters_ , child?”

“Scott ran into some in the woods last night. Derek Hale saved him and told him what they were.” Stiles coughs, testing the muscles in his stomach with a ginger touch. There was a minor twinge from the vicinity of his diaphragm, but nothing near as bad as what he’d been anticipating. “One of them showed up at school yesterday afternoon. His daughter’s in our class and Scott recognized him when he picked her up from school.”

“Give me their name.”

“A-argent. They’re the Argents.”

Funny. It hadn’t occurred to him until just now that the Hunters might hunt things that aren’t werewolves.

“ _Damnation_.” The master turns away and begins to pace while Stiles tries (and fails to pick himself up off the floor). He stops abruptly and scowls. “I rescind my order. You may continue your association with the wolves, child.”

Stiles blinks. “I… what?”

“You will aid them however you can so long as you do not use your power.” The master continues as if he hadn’t said a word. “You will report their movements and interactions with the Hunters to me. You will not betray my existence by word or deed.”

“You want me to _spy_?” Stiles manages to get to his feet, but it’s hard to straighten up. One of his ribs feels cracked… oh, ow. Maybe two.

The Master gestures in his general direction and the pain disperses. Stiles takes a deep breath, but feels no pain. “You will come to learn, Genim, that there is only one thing a Hunter hates more than the wolves and that is a sorcerer. The wolves have the dubious protection of the Code, but not us. Every clan in the area will band together to kill us if we are discovered. We are both of us in danger.”

“ _You_ might be.” Stiles bares his teeth. “I’m just a thrall.”

“So too was I once.” The master replies, idly. “Unfortunately for you, the Hunters know where Sorcerers come from. They’ll kill you just to prevent that which you may become.”

Stiles is pretty sure his life is already in danger just for consorting with werewolves so this isn’t particularly earth shattering news to him, but he nods anyway. There’s no point in letting the master see even that much of his thoughts.

“Good boy, Genim.” The master tells him and his form goes hazy along the edges. “I’ll be expecting weekly reports. You know where to find me.”

Stiles closes his eyes and when he opens them he’s alone. “Right.” He says to the empty air and then proceeds to crawl towards his bed. He can afford an extra half hour of sleep if he skips his shower. Scott will complain, but Stiles needs some quality one-on-one time with the healing runes embroidered into his bedsheets.


	2. Chapter 2

_Ten months later…_

It’s kind of weird, learning that Derek’s got a _job_ –and as the new mechanic in town, no less.

Actually, scratch that. It’s perfectly believable that Derek decided to become a grease monkey because there are very few alternate professions out there that will let him wander around quasi-shirtless while at work and there isn’t a much call for exotic male dancers in Beacon Hills.

“When was the last time you replaced the brake pads on this thing?” Derek grits out from underneath the Jeep.

“The last time a mechanic told me to.” Stiles replies without heat and without looking up from his book. “Go ahead and check the shocks too. With all the off-roading I’ve had to do lately you might as well.”

Derek rolls out from underneath the Jeep’s chassis and glares at him for no readily apparent reason. Then again, Derek doesn’t seem to need a reason to hate Stiles. It just comes naturally.

Well, whatever.

The silence drags on and Stiles can feel the familiar weight of one of Derek's critical glares.

“ _What_?” Stiles frowns.

“You are such a damn fake.” Derek grits out.

“Excuse me?”

“ _Nevermind_.” Derek goes back to working in manly quiet while pointedly ignoring Stiles’ existence.

 There’s no telling what crawled up his butt and died today, but Stiles has enough on his plate right now without having to baby Derek through yet another bad mood.

Erica and Boyd have been officially declared missing. There’s talk that they ran off together, which isn’t necessarily untrue, but it’s providing a nice smoke screen while Stiles sends out a few feelers just to make sure they’ve made it somewhere safe. He likes Erica, inasmuch as he really can like _anyone_ anymore, and thinks he probably owes it to her to make sure she lands on her feet. Stiles can’t really blame her or Boyd for bailing, not after what they went through in Gerard’s basement.

He thinks maybe he would be angry or feel betrayed if he could still experience those sorts of things instead of the faint echoes he calls feelings now. Then again, maybe he wouldn’t. People are strange like that. He could just as easily be glad they’re away from the mad house that is Beacon Hills. There’s no way for him to be certain.

It’s a cool dry place inside his head, but quiet. _Too_ quiet. He taps his pen back and forth between his fingers against the hard cover of his textbook just for some noise.

A snarl emerges from the insides of his Jeep. “Knock that off!”

Stiles makes a mock angry face in Derek’s direction and goes right on doing it until he shoves himself out from under the Jeep to snatch the pen right out of Stiles’ hand. He shoves it in his pocket and goes back to the car.

Stiles rolls his eyes and gets another one from his bag, ignoring Derek’s warning growl when he starts the tapping again.

“If you keep doing that, I’m going to…”

“… tear my throat out with your teeth.” Stiles says without pausing in his reading. “Second verse, same as the first. You really need to vary your lines, man.”

“… ‘jack up your bill’ is what I was _going_ to say.” Derek finishes.

Stiles stills and after a moment’s thought puts his pen away again.

 Money isn’t necessarily a problem for him. It’s way too easy to get if you know how, but he’s also his father’s son and knows that there’s nothing more suspicious than someone dropping a wad of cash without any visible income. By necessity, he spends some of his dad’s money because it would look weird if he didn’t and no one pays attention to his manuscript collection because it’s just a pile of old books.

(They are laughably ignorant of what certain old books _cost_ , but whatever. It all works out in his favor.)

However it’ll attract attention if he drops a few grand at the garage without it impacting his dad at all. Discretion is probably worth an hour or so of discomfort… right?

Maybe.

“Shutting up.” Stiles promises.

“I’ll believe it when I hear it.”

 _Asshole_.

Stiles turns his attention back towards his book, which isn’t really about chemistry. It’s a convenient cover he uses to conceal his real reading material, mostly because his book’s original cover may well have been tanned from human hide. Stiles felt no guilt about cutting the interior out and replacing it in something the wolves are less likely to smell at a hundred paces even if _technically_ he was defacing a historical artifact in doing so.  

It’s not like he’s much fonder of the material inside, but lycanthropy is technically a curse. You don’t learn much about curses in the herbal compendiums and healing treatises. Breaking them: yes. Understanding them: _no_.

(Not that he thinks Scott would turn down a cure in the event Stiles ever finds one and is able to offer it to him, but comprehension seems more valuable right now.)

He’s still reading when Derek does his creeperwolf thing and crouches down next to him without Stiles noticing him.

“Why is your chemistry book in Hungarian?” He asks and Stiles jumps like three feet into the air. It’s impressive.

“Jesus, Derek!” He swears and clutches his book to his chest. The odds of Derek being able to read it are perishingly small, but then again the odds of him recognizing the Rovás alphabet weren’t good either. Damn, it’s impossible to get a bead on Derek’s level of education, the smug fucker. “Personal bubble!!!”

“You say that like it’s supposed to mean something to me.”

“It’s the airspace within a three foot radius of my person that people don’t get to enter without permission!” Stiles snaps without thinking. “ _Especially_ werewolves.”

Derek shakes his head and holds up something that looks like either an enormous black rubber band or a dead snake. “Your serpentine belt.” He says by way of explanation and points out the cracks along the surface. “It needs to be replaced otherwise it’ll break soon.”

“Well, then replace it.” Stiles shrugs and waits for Derek to back out his space. It doesn’t happen. “What?”

“ _Typical_.” Derek turns back towards the car. “I suppose I should do all the _rest_ of the maintenance you’ve been letting slide?”

This… is a verbal trap. Stiles knows this, he’s blundered into enough of them to. Only this is the first time he’s spotted one being set up by a guy and by _Derek_ no less. “Yeeeees… that’s the general idea? The whole reason I brought it in?” He pauses and feigns thinking for a minute. “Oh wait, _no_ , it was because your relatives and betas keep ripping parts out of it.” He snaps his fingers. “And then they _hit me_ with the pieces.” Or try to, anyway. Peter missed. Erica didn’t.

“Yes, yes. Your life is tragic. Whine about it some more.” Derek goes to rummage around in the back, presumably for parts and it occurs to Stiles that this is the most time they’ve ever spent together without something attacking them or someone else dying.

It’s an odd thought and Stiles gets down from where he’s been perched on an inverted bucket to follow. Turns out it’s not very interesting, but he watches anyway.

Derek has very clever hands. Stiles gets a good look as he squats next to his Jeep and watches the man work. He has absolutely no idea what Derek’s doing, mind, but that’s par for the course. Stiles can check a distributor cap, change spark plugs, and check the oil but that’s about it. Anything else and he needs professional intervention.

“You have really _never_ been human, have you?” The words are out of Stiles’ mouth before he’s even conscious of opening it. He’s got no clue where they came from. They’re probably the result of something his subconscious has been chewing over since they first met.

Derek drops his wrench to turn and stare at Stiles with both eyebrows raised. He doesn’t seem like he’s about to fly into a murderous rage though, so Stiles keeps going. “You fake it okay most of the time, but it really just doesn’t come naturally to you.”

“I’m a werewolf.” Derek says shortly. “I was born this way.” He’s got that crinkle in-between his ginormous cartoon character eyebrows that Stiles likes to think of as ‘aggressively confused’.

“It’s a completely different set of social instincts, isn’t it?” Stiles guesses, warming to the subject. “Like when I told you to back off before. You literally have _no idea_ why it bothers people when you get that close, do you?”

Derek narrows his gaze and doesn’t reply, but it’s as good as a confession.

“Humans have a personal sphere of space. It’s about arm’s length.” Stiles holds out his arm to demonstrate. “You have to be invited into that space with like a handshake or a smile or something like that. Otherwise it comes off as the bad kind of aggressive. If a human turns around and finds you suddenly BAM right there, it wigs them out.”

“That is _stupid_.”

Stiles shrugs. “Humans are stupid. I don’t make the rules. I just know what they are.” He has to. “The important part is that you don’t always.” This is interesting. He’d always assumed like 90% of Derek’s jerkass behavior was due to his crippling personality malfunctions and various assorted personal traumas. Now he’s thinking it’s more like 70% --maybe even 60%. _Fascinating_.

“Do humans come with a manual?” Derek’s like half-humoring Stiles right now, but that means he’s still half-serious.

“Pfft, _no_.” Life would be a lot easier if they did. “People generally don’t otherwise this whole ‘werewolf’ thing would probably be a lot simplier.”

Derek turns to look at him with raised eyebrows and Stiles wonders what it was that he said.

“What?”

“’People’ isn’t the same as ‘humans’?”

Stiles snorts. “Hey, man, I’ve already had to redefine my notion of the word ‘monster’ after what happened to Scott.” He stands up because his thighs are starting to smart. “After that mess with the Argents it occurred to me that it was probably time to redefine ‘person’ too. The worst monsters I’ve ever met seem to walk around with human faces and they don’t transform under the full moon.”

 Derek looks him up and looks him down. That forehead wrinkle is back and it brought family. _Charming_. “There is something _wrong_ with you, Stilinski.”

“So many things.” Stiles agrees. It’s true. “When do you think the Jeep will be done?”

Derek’s lip curls, but he doesn’t pick the verbal gauntlet back up. “You’re on your own with the tires. I don’t have anything in the right size, but I can do the rest. It’ll take the rest of the afternoon. You can pick it up before I close up at eight.”

“Awesome, then I am taking my homework over to Starbucks.” He ducks under Derek’s arm and gathers his things. “Call me if something expensive happens.”

“Right.” Derek says as he leaves. “Your Hungarian chemistry homework. Of course.”

There’s a needle-prick in the small of Stiles’ back and he scowls. It’s not like he needs the warning that Derek’s getting too close to unstable ground.

He’ll have to avoid the Alpha for a little while to let things settle back into the status quo, which is kind of a shame actually.

Stiles thinks maybe he’d miss the gruff bastard if he could. He doesn’t have to pretend so hard around Derek. There’s no burden on him to make himself likeable because Derek already doesn’t like him and isn’t going to. There’s no way to describe how liberating that can be sometimes.

Well, nevermind. There’s no crying in baseball and it’s time to make his weekly report.

 

* * *

 

Derek watches Stiles go and listens for his heartbeat until it fades into the distance; steady as a fucking metronome, just like usual, without a single tremor or quiver in its cadence. You’d never know that he just faced down a werewolf who could rip him in two with a well-placed sneeze.  

The obnoxious little sociopath has done it _again_ ; derailed a conversation that Derek actually wanted to have for once through the power of _sheer balls_.

“Screw this.” Derek mutters as he gets back to work.

Buying out the local body shop was probably not his best idea, but it’s been a financially sound one so far. Beacon Hills isn’t exactly large enough to attract anything like a Firestone so his is the only garage in town, which is helpful. He’s not entirely sure he’d get customers otherwise, although a wretched personality and approach to pricing didn’t stop the garage’s former owner from staying in the black.

Despite the fact that her owner’s a neglectful little creep, Stiles’ Jeep is a good sturdy vehicle. She’s the kind of car Derek likes; old and tough as nails so long as you care for it right. His Camaro is the same way, albeit somewhat more finicky. The Camaro’s a lady where the Jeep’s a tough battle-scarred old broad who’s seen better days and lived to tell about it. 

You have to respect that.

Now if only her owner wasn’t a disaster waiting to happen. Derek’s not sure he wants to know what McCall and Stilinski are up to that had to involve Stiles teaching himself archaic Hungarian, but he’ll probably find out sooner or later whether he wants to or not.

He’s tempted to have one of his wolves track Stilinski’s movements just so they aren’t taken by surprise this time, but …no. That’s not a good idea. Isaac is trustworthy, but he isn’t strong enough to handle trouble on his own and Jackson’s control is utter shit unless Lydia is around so he’s not even useful as backup. Actually, considering his inability to take orders from anyone he’s not terrified of, he’d probably be worse than no help at all.

Anyway, Derek’s off hours are already devoted to tracking down Erica and Boyd to make sure they’re safe. He can’t lose sight of that considering he already failed those kids once already.

Derek lets his head fall back against the padded surface of his creeper.

There are just not enough hours in the day.


	3. Chapter 3

Stiles has been waiting in his shaded little corner of Starbucks for nearly an hour, staring at the folded square of paper that holds his carefully phrased report, which he spent nearly two days sifting potentially dangerous information out of without actually withholding information from his master.

Every Saturday afternoon without fail he’s placed a square much like this one into a shady place and watched shadows like boney fingers curl around it to drag the packet down into the inky darkness. Today? _Nothing_.

He’s been sitting at this table since he left Derek’s garage and the packet hasn’t so much as budged. In about ten minutes he’s going to have to move because the light from the open windows in front is travelling across the floor and a bar of strong late-afternoon sun is edging up on his table.

When the bar reaches his knuckles, Stiles grabs the paper and stuffs it back into his pocket.

‘I’m going to have to deliver this in person.’ Stiles realizes and glances at his watch. It’s a quarter to four, which is nowhere near the time by which Derek said the Jeep would be ready. ‘That son of a bitch is going to make me _walk_ clear over to the other side of town.’

Figures.

The master occupies a disturbingly cheerful little bungalow in a section of town that straddles the border between the ritzy suburbs where most of Stiles peer group lives and the upper-middle to middle class neighborhood where Stiles and his dad are. “Occupies” is the best word Stiles can think of for whatever it is the master does. If he eats or sleeps Stiles has never seen him do it. The bungalow contains the usual sort of furniture although no one has ever sat on the chairs or slept in the bed. The master doesn’t need to and Stiles isn’t allowed to.

He’s used to that, but what he isn’t used to is the sight of police cruisers surrounding the building.

Stiles freezes on the sidewalk outside and watches uniformed officers mill around on the master’s mercilessly groomed lawn putting up police lines and generally ignoring the well-meaning gawkers –several of whom never remembered that there even WAS a house in that lot until just now.

Fortunately the Sherriff isn’t on scene yet. Stiles can manipulate just about anyone’s attention, cloak himself in a universal blind spot, and turn himself all but invisible for practical purposes. His dad is curiously immune. Stiles thinks maybe it’s because on some level his dad is always looking for him or maybe their biological connection grants him a resistance to the things his son can do. It might also be a symptom of long-term exposure to Stiles’ magic. Scott is a tough target too, but Stiles can run literal rings around Isaac. The deputies pose little to no problem and don’t even twitch as he ducks under the yellow tape to enter their crime scene.

Inside the house looks like the site of a tiny localized tornado. The furniture has been tossed around like flotsam on the beach and long strips of wallpaper backed with cracked plaster have been torn off the walls leaving exposed studs and jagged drywall behind. Stiles winces at that last one because the bodies in there are going to give the CSI guys conniption fits.

There isn’t much to do about it however except reinforce a few of the wards keeping the master’s restless dead from getting too restless.

Stiles might as well be a ghost for all the notice he garners as he wanders through the livingroom and into the den that the master uses as a workroom. The shadows grow darker there and rustle as he passes by following the sound of a camera shutter.

The den is more or less in order, although ‘in order’ means that the walls are lined with slate covered in hieroglyphs and pictograms from the last casting that went on in there. Stiles gives it a disinterested once over; nothing of interest –for him anyway. The _investigators_ are going nuts.

He strolls through the rest of the house bagging the occasional artifact that either looks interesting or is too dangerous to leave unsupervised in his dad’s evidence locker. He follows the gaps in police attention poking into the places they seem to unconsciously avoid. So far he hasn’t found the master’s body, but Stiles isn’t 100% positive the miserable old snake would leave one.

The search turns up gold in an out-of-the-way corner of what started life as a second-floor bedroom, but mostly houses a small collection of grimoires and a sarcophagus. The sarcophagus is empty right now –the occupants don’t tend to last long- and Stiles is helping himself to the library when he puts a foot wrong and hears the floor creak underneath him in a way he’s heard before.

Setting his books aside, Stiles drops to his knees and examines the polished hardwood until he spots the place where the light bounces off it differently than the rest. He uses his pocket knife to lever up the loose boards to reveal a little hidey hole lined with silk twill and his breath actually stops, which is evidence all on its own that he’s hit the mother lode.

The hidey hole contains twelve little glass phials capped with tarnished silver claws. Most of them hold dusty old finger bones stripped of their flesh and carefully preserved, but one looks almost empty at first glance. Stiles knows it isn’t. He can feel its contents pounding against his skin like the summer sun and if he un-focuses his eyes he can almost see his soul beating against the sides of the reliquary –a speck of burning ash or a tiny airborne ember.

His breath hitches on something that wants to be a sob if only Stiles could remember how to cry and he squeezes his eyes shut before stripping off his hoodie and using it to wrap up the reliquaries hidden underneath the floor. It’s easier being so close to his soul with it muffle by a bag and thick cloth.

Somewhere in the distance he can hear his dad issuing orders to somebody; time to go.

Stiles takes the back door out and hurries to catch the bus back over to Derek’s garage. It’s about time to pick up the Jeep and he needs it now more than ever.

The fact that the shadows follow him out the door and into the street is not lost on him.

 

* * *

 

Derek is standing over the apprentice mechanic he inherited from the last asshole who ran the garage watching him install a set of oxygen sensors when the Stilinski kid stumbles back in through the door. He pins the little creep with a glare and Stiles mimes locking his mouth shut and throwing away the key. Derek points at the waiting area and Stiles points at the men’s room behind the Employees Only door with a little ‘what can you do?’ shrug. Derek rolls his eyes and jerks his thumb at the ‘no personal bags behind the counter’ sign. Stiles makes a pathetic expression, but Derek just snaps his fingers and the kid sets his stuff down in the passenger side footwell of his Jeep, which is off the lift and waiting for her mouth-breathing owner.

The office phone rings few minutes after Stiles vanishes into the back room.

Now, see, normally Derek knows better than to leave his student workers alone with a customer’s unsupervised belongings. He’s had this place a month and has already formed a hypothesis that his predecessor only hired people on work release permits –probably because they work for way below market value. He’s fired most of them in favor of keeping the positions open for his betas, but Isaac only just learned how to change oil. His jobs involve checking gauges and topping off windshield wiper fluid. He’s nowhere near where Derek needs him to be so Derek kept some guys on.

They’re all right so long as they aren’t allowed to speak to any of the customers or give price quotes, but at least one –Manny- is an involuntary kleptomaniac. Mostly he keeps it limited to pens and stuff, but he’s a bit like a magpie. Shiny stuff is doomed around him and he has an unerring nose for finding it.

So, yeah, Derek kicks himself later after he’s cashed out Stiles’ invoice and sent the nuisance home with strict orders to bring his ass back in a month for an oil change and the Jeep’s 100K maintenance.

Manny’s heart rate kicks up the second he claps eyes on Derek and Derek knows, he just knows, that he’s about to have to fucking call Stiles and explain whatever the fuck it was Manny just stole from him. Knowing Stiles he’ll take it out of the garage in free bodywork.

 _Shit_.

“Hand it over, Manny.” Derek says flat out and watches as the kid’s face falls. He stands firm as Manny drags himself over like his legs weigh a ton each and drops a weird little curio into Derek’s open palm. It’s… Derek doesn’t know what to call it other than an ‘ _objet d’art_ ’; Laura’s old catch phrase for the weird little bits of useless yet pretty curios that she encountered while antiquing.

Art is not even remotely Derek’s thing. He has the layman’s appreciation for it, but doesn’t seek it out. Delicate stuff doesn’t last in a werewolf’s home. The walls in his apartments tend to be bare, but this… it feels good in his hand. It’s just a little glass tube with clawed pewter ‘hands’ holding it shut on either end. Frankly, it looks like the sort of thing you’d see in a Hot Topic or a head shop.

It’s not his to keep. He knows that, but at the same time he’s had enough of Stiles for one day. The kid won’t notice his widget missing right away and if he does? _Well_ , who cares? It’d do him some good to sweat it out a little.

“I’ll deal with this.” Derek tells Manny as he slips the curio into his jacket pocket. “If I catch you touching a customer’s stuff again though you’re fired.” He fixes Manny with a penetrating glare. “Am I understood?”

“Yes, sir.” Manny replies with a miserable expression and goes back to his work, forgettable to the last.

Derek doesn’t call Stiles at closing. He doesn’t forget the phial in his pocket, but the longer he carries it the more he… likes it. It’s nice to have something to tool around with while he’s thinking and it’s not like it was expensive or anything; just quartz crystal and soft pewter, he’s sure.

By the time he leaves for the night he knows he isn’t giving it back, but for once Derek can’t make himself feel guilty about it.

Isaac looks up when Derek gets back to the loft, which is suspiciously cleaner than it was when Derek left it that morning. To his surprise, Isaac smiles after looking him over.

“What?” Derek grumbles.

“Nothing.” Isaac shrugs. “You just look like you’re in a good mood. Good day at the garage?”

Derek frowns and … he is, a little bit. His responsibilities still weigh on him like a burden he will never ever escape, but at the moment he isn’t sure he wants to.

“I guess so.” Derek replies as he strips out of his jacket and goes poking into the kitchen looking for the takeout menus. “Chinese or pizza?”

Isaac’s stomach growls at the mention of food and he perks up at once. “Pizza –and can we get wings with it?” He adds the last in a softer voice, almost hesitant even after all they’ve been through. He has trouble asking for the things he wants, but maybe anyone would after what he’s been through.

“Yeah, sure.” Derek agrees easily to Isaac’s visible surprise. Usually he keeps tight control on his finances and vetoes frivolous extras like side dishes and cable, but he’s feeling generous tonight and it occurs to him a couple months too late that Isaac could do with some positive attention once and a while.

Hot wings are probably a lousy start, but Derek never claimed to be good at this sort of thing.


End file.
